


Mortals Forsaken

by umqra1895



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drinking to Cope, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad John, Sad Sebastian, SebastJohn - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-26 11:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umqra1895/pseuds/umqra1895
Summary: “Loving a sociopath never ends well. We should have realised sooner, I suppose,” Sebastian says, and it’s enough of a shock that Watson steps back, startled. He’s piecing it all together.“You and-”“Yes.”Watson looks Sebastian over, really looks this time. And he recognizes. He sees the weariness, the grief.Watson squares his shoulders. “If you want to talk it out, mate, then get a fucking therapist.”___After Reichenbach, two geniuses are dead, and two loyal men are left behind. Sebastian Moran becomes fascinated with watching John Watson trying to cope, and finally decides to confront him face to face.





	Mortals Forsaken

1.

_ Wide dead glass eyes _

_ A flat grin _

_ Blood still wet and pooling- _

Sebastian jolts awake with a hoarse noise, reaching instinctively next to him for- but he’s not there. He wouldn’t be, he reminds himself, fingers grazing the cold metal and glass of his gun and a vodka bottle. 

The image of Jim dead and bleeding won’t leave. He rolls off the mattress and pads to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. 

Five months and one day. 

His floor requires careful steps - the mirror is still in pieces on the floor, from a week ago when he punched it. If he swept it up, then he might have to see himself, so he’s put it off. He doesn’t need the mirror to know how shit he looks. He can feel the stubble, the split lip from that fight behind that pub a few nights ago, the hollows in his cheeks that weren’t there before-

Before.

He squeezes his eyes shut, then forces himself to move into the main room of the flat. 

It’s about the same size as the one he’d been living in when Jim found him. Sebastian has made no effort to keep it clean. His dirty clothes lie where they fall and the half-eaten takeaway boxes pile up. 

It’s almost like it was before Jim, except now he has an empire on his shoulders. Jim’s increasing trust in Sebastian to do the big jobs made hideous sense after. It infuriated Sebastian, that for months-  _ months-  _ Jim had been planning that hideous end. That he’d looked into Sebastian’s eyes in his most vulnerable moments and fucking lied. That Jim had pretended to-

And he’d known all along. Jim had always been one to think long term. 

Months of planning, but the ending - the flick of a finger, the propulsion of a bullet - takes less than a second. The hair-thin space between alive and dead. 

Sebastian realises he’s ripping a knife through a polystyrene takeaway box, reducing it to shreds. He tosses the knife back on the counter. There’s work to do.

The house on Conduit Street is still intact, much the same as it was before. Except empty. Sebastian has taken the necessary materials from it - weapons, contact files, laptop. He only ever goes back to the home to check the surveillance room, or occasionally drags a victim to the basement for an interrogation. 

He usually needs a drink or two before he can handle stepping over that threshold. 

Now, he pulls open his laptop, checking in on the boys in Moscow, his Yakuza contacts in Tokyo, his contact in Dresden. The network threads are still intact, but the web is fragile, and Sebastian is still only able to see part of the puzzle. It’s a full-time job, keeping it all from imploding. 

It’s the only thing that keeps him getting up in the morning. 

That, and John Watson. 

It had started out as just a sick curiosity- two dead geniuses, two army men left in the dust. There was still a camera in 221B, but after, Watson had packed up and moved out. Seems Watson couldn’t stand the memories of the genius’ home either. It wasn’t difficult to find his new address. 

Sebastian hasn’t gone to the trouble of bugging Dr. Watson’s new flat yet. The little bastard would probably notice, anyway. But he’s taken to following him on CCTV, easily picking up on his routine and his routes from his flat to the clinic, clinic to local pub, local pub to home. Occasionally he’s with Molly Hooper, or that silver-haired detective, but mostly he’s alone. And who can blame him? Sebastian probably understands him more than any of those dolts Watson seeks company with.

He checks his clock- it’s early, not yet seven, and Watson will be just leaving for work. Sebastian pulls up the appropriate feed and spots Watson on his usual route, already looking browbeaten and hunched.

Sebastian understands. The geniuses, the gods, go take their big grand game to Mount Olympus, playing above the clouds while the mortals below watch the war turn into a tempest. The gods forget that the mortals are the ones who feel the rain and the searing lightning. The gods stay high and dry. Even if they are dead.  

A new email, then three more ping in Sebastian’s inbox. The work is neverending. He has to leave the flat today to set straight some annoying little flies trying to disrupt things. Maybe he’ll even get to kill someone today. Goody. 

__

Every time Sebastian gets to put a bullet into someone’s head, he imagines it’s Mycroft Holmes’ smug, beaky face. It’s a small comfort, imagining Mycroft burning in hell with his arrogant brother. 

If it was up to Sebastian, killing Mycroft Holmes would be a full-time job. He would make it last months, his suffering. Sebastian would be lulled to sleep by the man’s screams, and when it was all over, he’d burn him to pure white ash. 

But the work stays top priority. For Jim. All for that fucker. 

He shouldn’t bother. He should let the whole web collapse, watch it all crumble, and he’s been tempted dozens of times. Why should he give a shit when Jim never gave a shit about  _ him,  _ when he just saw him as a pawn, as a fucking  _ legacy  _ for his stupid bloody plan? 

But it’s all Sebastian has. So he does the work. And at the end of the day, he watches Dr. Watson. 

That night, he goes to Watson’s pub in person, peers in at the doctor. Slumped shoulders, bags under his eyes, bristle on his chin and upper lip. A mirror image of Sebastian, six inches shorter. 

Sebastian should go. He’s smoked two cigarettes to the nub, and Watson will look up and notice him at some point.

He lights up a third fag.

Sebastian has a growing suspicion that the doctor never actually shagged the detective, which is just so damn sad that he wants to laugh out loud.

When his third cigarette is done, Sebastian steps inside. The bar is quiet- a Monday night with no match, no pub quizzes. 

Watson would recognize him, of course. You don’t easily forget the face of the man who abducted you and strapped you into a Semtex vest. 

Sebastian turns his back to Watson’s booth, ordering two pints at the bar. Watson doesn’t even bother to look up as he approaches and sets the drinks onto his table and says, “A Guinness on me.” 

“Cheers, but-” Watson finally looks at him, and the doctor’s weary eyes harden into pure fury. He’s up in an instant, guarded. “What do you want?” he snarls, vicious enough to make a few patrons turn in interest.

What  _ did  _ Sebastian want? He puts both hands up. “Don’t worry, Doctor Watson, you’re no threat to me, so I have no reason to wish you harm.”

Watson is bristling, looking ready to smash the pint glass over the table. 

“It’s just a beer. That’s all,” Sebastian says. 

“Why don’t you take it and  _ piss off?  _ Do I look like I want fucking company? From  _ you _ ?” Watson is seething, but beneath all of that fury, there’s pure, raw grief. Is this what Sebastian looks like?

He should leave. Instead, he sits across from Watson’s spot, taking a slow drink from his own pint. “It wouldn’t be a total lie to say that I have a bit of an idea what you’re going through,” he mutters.

Watson shakes his head, and with weary, furious condescension, says, “No, you don’t-”

“It’s what everyone says, yeah? That they  _ understand.  _ But he  _ left  _ you, after everything you’ve been through, after pretending to care. He never gave a shit about the people he left behind - how could he, if he would just  _ go  _ like that?” 

Sebastian’s words grow increasingly heated, but he sees a flicker of recognition in Watson’s face, the slightest crack in his facade before he’s furious again. Watson grabs him by the collar and yanks him out of the booth, and Sebastian’s ready to block a punch when Watson leans close and growls, “You. Know.  _ Nothing  _ about what I feel.” 

“Oi, bloody break it up, you two, or you can get right out of my pub!” The bartender shouts over to them. Watson throws her a look, and releases Sebastian’s collar, still fuming.

“Loving a sociopath never ends well. We should have realised sooner, I suppose,” Sebastian says, and it’s enough of a shock that Watson steps back, startled. He’s piecing it all together.

“You and-”

“Yes.”

Watson looks Sebastian over,  _ really  _ looks this time. And he recognizes. He sees the weariness, the grief. 

Watson squares his shoulders. “If you want to talk it out,  _ mate,  _ then get a fucking therapist.”

His face looks fucking broken as he gives Sebastian one final look, then turns and hurries out of the pub. 

Sebastian settles into the booth and knocks down both pints with steady efficiency. 

 

2.

When Sebastian gets injured, he usually tends to it himself. Jim used to like tending to his wounds, surprisingly meticulous when it came to cleaning and stitching up an injury. 

When the injury is too much for Sebastian to handle, he calls Jim’s private medic. Well.  _ His  _ private medic now. Tess knows the precise nature of his jobs and never asks questions beyond what’s necessary for treatment or surgery. She used to joke around while she patched Sebastian up, about how he’s broken a record on defying death. They were something close to friends, he and Tess. Now she knows well enough to keep her mouth shut while she’s cleaning him up, because she knows that some dark part of Sebastian would rather not be rescued at all.

Sebastian was wrestling a would-be client’s gun away when the fucker got one past him, and Sebastian suffered a deep knife cut in the thigh before he’d eliminated the man entirely. 

He limps from the building after tying his jacket around his leg to staunch the bleeding, cursing the whole way. He tugs out his phone and texts Tess. 

_ Leg injury, knife. Theobalds Rd and Harpur.  _

He pockets his phone and hisses, limping to a nearby bench to sit, trying to look nonchalant. His eyes focus across the street, trying to focus on something other than the pain, then decides that the pain is preferable to anything else right now. His eyes slide closed, imagining the dark gash in his muscle, almost grazing bone- God, it hurts-

“Jesus fucking Christ, what happened to you?”

Sebastian’s eyes snap open and Watson is staring at the puddle of blood forming by Sebastian’s shoes. Sebastian grimaces and tightens his jacket around his thigh. “Do you actually care?” His eyebrow raises, and Watson looks startled for a moment. He’s got such a bloody  _ readable  _ face. His eyebrows scrunch up, then down, then he gives his head a little shake:  _ Right, why did I stop again? To hell with the Hippocratic Oath, fuck this guy.  _

At least, that’s what Sebastian imagines he’s thinking. “Go on. Help is on the way,” he said dryly. “No need to feel any doctoral guilt over little old me.” He manages a wink, although he’s about ready to pass out. 

“You’re about ready to pass out,” Watson tuts, and then he’s kneeling on the pavement in front of him, tugging something out of his bag.    


“Do you always carry a med kit with you?” Sebastian asks, unable to tamp down a knowing smirk. Of course Doctor Watson does, still secretly hoping for a bit of adventure. So that’s why Watson stopped - anything to take his mind off the monotony of grief. Anything different. He stopped for the same reason that the knife in Sebastian’s leg had been an almost welcome sensation.

“Weren’t you in the scouts? Always be prepared,” Watson says to the pavement, then his hand is on Sebastian’s thigh, oddly intimate. He unties Sebastian’s jacket, which is really too bulky to be of much use, and replaces it with a wadded bit of gauze. “Press hard,” he commands, and Sebastian does, watching the crown of Watson’s greying hair as the doctor begins winding a compression bandage around his leg. “Bullet wound?” he asks. 

“Knife.”

“Mm. Well, that’s a blessing, at least.” He frowns to himself, tightening the bandage. 

“Not that you care,” Sebastian reminds him. 

“No.” Watson rises, and the hardness is back in his eyes. “Your boss ruined my life,” he says simply, and his gaze is so intense that Sebastian actually has a hard time holding it. “And ended my friend’s life.” 

Sebastian lets the heavy silence sit there for just a moment. “You think I had any control over what he did? Do you think either of us  _ ever  _ had any control over those two?” 

Watson looks at him, and can’t help but let out a sharp, scoffing laugh. He shakes his head, looking up at the overcast sky for a moment. “You said someone’s coming for you?” he finally asks, gesturing to his leg. 

“Yes. She’s quite competent. Bit of a reckless driver, though,” he says offhandedly, seeing her orange Volvo screech around a corner. 

“I should go, then.” Watson gathers up his medical kit, packing it back away. He rises, hesitates. “You were right, you know,” he mutters. “Nobody else gets it. Nobody understands, but  _ everyone  _ wants to tell me that the loss of their nan or their fucking dog getting run over is the same thing.” 

Sebastian nods, startled. He didn’t have anyone to talk to about Jim. The men he commanded didn’t  _ grieve  _ the all-powerful boss that made them uneasy if not downright petrified. Nobody had tried to compare Jim’s death to anyone else’s, and Sebastian could only imagine how infuriating that would be. 

“Hope you murdered the lot of them.” Sebastian grunts as he rises, clutching the wound. 

“No,” Watson says distantly. His eyes are trained on Tess’s Volvo, which has just pulled up to the kerb, cutting off several other drivers, who were now honking angrily. “Killing’s your business.”

Tess rolls her window down and pokes her head out the window.  “Can you walk, you idiot?” she shouts at Sebastian. 

Sebastian pulls a grimace and nods, but turns back to Watson before going any further. “The offer still stands for a pint,” he says. “If you’re game. 

Watson doesn’t respond, but he’s still standing on the corner after Sebastian falls into the passenger’s seat and Tess peels off.

 

3.

It takes three trips to Watson’s pub before Sebastian bumps into the doctor again. He had almost reached the conclusion that Watson was purposefully avoiding the pub, and Sebastian couldn’t blame him. Watson had other friends, people who were mourning Sherlock. Sebastian realised, pathetically, that Watson was the only person he interacted with outside of work. 

This time, Watson doesn’t turn him away, and accepts the pint Sebastian buys him, although it doesn’t escape Sebastian’s notice that Watson watches the glass’s journey from the draught pull to the table, as if suspicious that Sebastian will poison it. Sebastian is tempted to chastise him, but he can’t imagine how he looks to this clean-cut bloke- half an eyebrow missing, his nose bearing a history of breaks and bad heals, a feral grin. 

“You were in the military,” Sebastian says.

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” Watson nods. “And you can call me John.” He’s relaxed somewhat, but his gaze still shifts around the pub, as if incredulous that he’s really here with such company. Sebastian can't blame him. 

But it’s easy, he finds, talking about the military stuff. Watson- John- was a captain before he was discharged. He’d been a good boy, unlike Sebastian. Sebastian decides not to tell John the gruesome details of his own dishonorable discharge. They may be similar- Sebastian recognizes the way Watson sizes up the patrons in the room, looking for threats, the way his hand clenches next to his pint glass - but they differ in how they view killing, Sebastian already knows. 

John buys the second round of pints, and Sebastian the third, and it’s only halfway through their fourth one that the doctor finally says into his glass, “How’d you know? About the way I...felt. About…” 

“I did a fair amount of watching,” Sebastian says. “You stick around someone like Moriarty...like Holmes...you get better at observing.”

John nods in agreement.

“It doesn’t take much observational prowess to see the way you looked at him. The way he looked at you.”

John shakes his head, slowly, then more viciously. “You’re wrong,” he spits out. “He never felt that way. He didn’t care about  _ anyone  _ like that. Maybe that  _ woman.  _ But no, he made it very clear that he never saw me that way.”

Oh. So they  _ hadn’t  _ ever done anything. Sebastian stares in quiet amazement. “Jesus. How many years did you two live together, and you didn’t- not even once-?”

John has a way of pulling a face that’s both stoic and quietly murderous. “Are you done on this topic?” he asks quietly, with enough authority that Sebastian can only grin, which painfully stretches his split lip. 

“How’s the leg?” John asks, changing the subject. 

“Hurts,” Sebastian says. “But I’m mobile. Limping.” 

John is looking for other things to say, it seems. He finally blurts out, “What the hell do we do now?”

“You mean you and I?” Sebastian asks. He tugs out a cigarette, then another, offering one to John, who shakes his head. “Mm, there’s a good doctor. Well. I know something that would take our minds off things. Maybe. Or it could make things a hell of a lot worse.”

“No,” John says stoutly. 

Sebastian sits back to light up, examining him in a new light. Interesting. There was something about John Watson that just begged to be figured out. He was a breathing puzzle. No wonder Holmes had liked this one. “You’re a closet homophobe, is that it? Self-loathing?”

John scoffs, looking affronted. “I have a gay sister.” 

Sebastian shrugs, taking a slow drag and blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Oh, and you two are best buddies, are you? Since I’ve seen her all of...zero times around your flat after your friend died?”

John leans forward, smiling dangerously, his eyes fierce. “Stop trying to figure me out, Sebastian Moran. You’re not going to find anything interesting, I promise you.” 

“See, I disagree,” Sebastian says. He tugs off his leather jacket, finding the pub all too warm. He’s fed up with beer. Whiskey’s next. It would be so easy, to slide into a brown haze tonight. Maybe just a tad bit dangerous, but that would be a bit exciting. “Because we have you, an attractive, bisexual army doctor, living with that tall drink of water detective- not really  _ my  _ type, mind you, but everyone else was so bloody obsessed with him-” He drank his pints too quickly, he vaguely realises. He’s getting quite chatty. “-and you’re saying you two  _ never  _ fucked?” 

Watson is straight up glaring now, but Sebastian’s on a roll. “Oh. Wait. Have you ever been with a  man before?” he asks, dropping his voice. He leans in confidentially. “You can tell me.”

But he can already tell he’s gone down the wrong path. John looks vicious and closed off, staring Sebastian down. 

Sebastian laughs, an almost pitying noise. God, the fucker couldn’t even admit it  _ now.  _ “It’s so fucking  _ British  _ of you two, isn’t it? Not talking about it. Fear of what would happen if one of you was wrong. Because he  _ had  _ to know, right? He had to have noticed how you felt. Everyone else fucking did, and he was so  _ brilliant  _ at deducing things. It just blows my mind that you two never-”

“And so WHAT?” John bellows, rising out of his chair, making the whole pub turn and stare. John doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Do you think that changes a single thing? Do you think I can undo any of this? What good does it do?” John’s reigned in his volume, but he’s still furious, intense. His fists are at his sides. He needs to punch someone. Sebastian knows that feeling all too well. 

He nods at the door. “Outside, Watson,” he grunts. 

John follows him into the alleyway. Sebastian spins to face him, tossing his cigarette butt to the ground. “It doesn’t do any good, John,” he says. “None of it does. And in the end, I guess it doesn’t matter, that I had my stupid genius and you never had yours, because now they’re both fucking  _ dead,  _ and my memories may as well be your fantasies, because they’re both fucking worthless now, aren’t they? So you want to be furious about it? Be my guest. Go on and hit me, if you like. God knows you need to.”

Watson stares at him, startled. “Go on,” Sebastian says, stepping closer. “Don’t you want to punch me in the face? I swear, I’m unarmed tonight.” He spreads his arms, showing his jeans and his tight t-shirt, his jacket still in the booth inside. “Go on, then. I put you in a fucking Semtex vest and aimed a sniper rifle at your head.” He puts on his best villainous smile, and it feels good, not having to be the sad-sack for once, shrugging on the role of the Bad Guy like a worn-in leather jacket. “I was in love with the man who ruined your life. And he was the  _ best _ -”

John finally snarls and steps in, decking Sebastian hard across the jaw, making him stagger back.  _ Fuck.  _ He’s stronger than he looks, and Sebastian can’t help but shove him back against the wall, aiming a punch at his side. Watson deflects and they scuffle, grabbing at each other, grunting, and Sebastian gets a good hit in at last, one to Watson’s chest that sends him reeling back. 

“How are you going to keep on like this, John? How are you going to keep waking up under the weight of all that fucking  _ denial?  _ You know what you need? A good, sound fucking,” Sebastian snarls. 

Watson roars, smacking him across the face, hard enough that Sebastian can taste blood in his mouth. Sebastian laughs wildly. It all hurts, and it’s good, the pain and alcohol blurring together, and John Watson’s furious, a lock of hair falling down over his forehead, his eyes hard as flint. 

“You’re just  _ full  _ of good advice, aren’t you?” John snarls. “You want some of mine? Just stay the  _ fuck  _ out of my business.”

Sebastian gives him a rough shove, staggering back against the wall. “You had plenty of opportunities to leave,  _ doctor.  _ But you just keep coming back. I think we both know why. You  _ need  _ to let something out. Your rage. Your want.”

John reaches up to hit him, but Sebastian catches his wrist, pinning it behind John’s back and drawing him closer until they’re nose to nose, both of them breathing hard. “You don’t know a damn about what I want,” John growls, and then his mouth is on Sebastian’s, harsh and biting. 

John, it turns out, is a good kisser, aggressive and furious as he is, and Sebastian finally gives in to letting him lead. He takes in a sharp breath through his nose as John’s teeth find his split lower lip. It’s been a very long time since he kissed anyone like this. His hand instinctively slides to grope between John’s legs, but now it’s John’s turn to catch his wrist in his strong hand.

“Not here,” he orders, and his voice his lower now, rougher. 

“Where then? My flat’s a dump,” Sebastian says against his mouth. 

Watson hesitates for a second before replying, “Mine.” 

 

4.

The flat’s nicer than Sebastian had supposed. He’s surprised by the dynamic wallpaper that covers the wall against the sofa, and the chic, if impersonal, throw pillows on the sofa. Sebastian suspects someone else did the decorating. 

It was a tense cab ride, and Sebastian had half-expected Watson to change his mind at the last minute and close his flat door in his face. 

But here they are, and John’s already tugging off his coat. “Nice place,” Sebastian says, automatically reaching for his jacket pocket where his cigarettes are, but John clears his throat loudly. 

“Right. No smoking?” Sebastian slips off his jacket as well, and it joins the coat rack next to Watson’s. 

“No bloody smoking. And no guns past here.” John points to the entryway table just before the living room. 

Ground rules. Smart. But Watson  _ is  _ smart, isn’t he? Sebastian makes a show of disarming the gun before setting it cheekily in the dish of keys. 

“And if I tell you to leave, you fucking leave,” John adds.

“Bossy little sod, aren’t you?” Sebastian smirks, then steps closer, his hands sliding to John’s hips.

“I’m not  _ him, _ ” John spits out, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Neither am I,” Sebastian says simply. 

John is stout, firm-limbed, sandy-haired- there is nothing to remind Sebastian of Jim, and nothing in Sebastian that bears even a passing similarity to Holmes. That’s why the two of them are here, after all.

Sebastian leans in to kiss him, taking his time. John follows suit, letting the kiss unfold naturally, and yes, he really is quite good at this. Sebastian’s fingers slide into his hair, tugging, and enjoying the resulting groan that comes from it. And, he notices with a small note of satisfaction as he presses closer, it’s not the only response John elicits.

“This isn’t my first time, actually,” John breathes, grabbing a fistful of Sebastian’s shirt. He kisses down Sebastian’s neck, then bites down, making Sebastian hiss. “With a man.” His tongue slides out to draw over the bite he’s just left, and Sebastian clutches him closer, nails digging into the small of his back. 

“Military?” Sebastian guesses. 

John laughs, and gives him a rough shove. “How’d you know? Bedroom’s that way.” He nods to a door on the left.

They are precarious as Sebastian backs into the room- it’s a strange, careful dance, both of them on edge, both of them hungry for something they can’t have. Sebastian’s already tugging his shirt off, and he gets the satisfaction of seeing John looking at him with some combination of fascination and trepidation. 

Sebastian’s body was at its peak when he was working for Jim, training to be the quickest, the strongest- and the best-looking naked man possible for Jim. Now his figure was rangy, underfed, but still muscular and whippet quick. And covered with scars.    


“We won’t be lacking for battle scar stories, then-” John breathes. 

“You must have a few of your own. Get your clothes off,” Sebastian orders. John raises a critical brow, obviously not completely on board with the power shift, but Sebastian simply retorts, “I  _ do  _ outrank you, after all, Captain.”

Watson barks out a small, nervous laugh, and he’s almost sheepish as he tugs off his jumper, his shirt, until he’s down to his vest underneath. “Jesus, how the hell do you move in all this nonsense?” Sebastian loses patience entirely and tugs John’s vest up over his head before he can protest. His eyes immediately draw to the white shrapnel scar spidering across John’s shoulder. 

“Well, well, well.” Sebastian’s fingernail digs into John’s scar, and the shorter man hisses, hands sliding up Sebastian’s chest. “Isn’t that a beauty…” 

“Bastard,” John gasps at the pressure of Sebastian’s fingernail, but Sebastian is already feeling along the back of his shoulder. 

“No exit wound, if that’s what you’re wondering,” John says tightly. 

“Oo, that had to hurt."

He’s getting more than a little impatient- John was a skilled kisser, but now his touch is too gentle, exploring Sebastian’s lines of muscle with doctor’s hands, as if assessing him. He doesn’t have the fire Sebastian saw in the alleyway. Sebastian can fix that. 

He takes a step back and slaps Watson across the cheek. “Are we going to fuck, or are you going to give me a medical exam, doctor?” he sneers, and that’s all it takes. Sebastian is a full foot taller, but John has no difficulty tackling him onto the bed, pinning him there. 

“ _ There  _ he is,” Sebastian laughs almost madly, which earns him a rough hair tug from Watson. 

“Are you trying to be my therapist? Get me to confront my feelings _? _ ” John demands, and he really does look good like this, in charge, his naked, scarred chest heaving. 

“No. I just happen to know what we both need,” Sebastian snarls through his teeth. “You need to fuck me into the mattress until we’re both cross-eyed and can’t remember our own names. Yeah?” 

John stares at him a moment, then he springs into action, swearing under his breath as he begins to tug at Sebastian’s jeans. Sebastian lifts his hips, sliding them off and kicking them away, his pants following. 

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Sebastian asks, unable to mask his amusement at the rather bewildered look John is giving his cock. “And don’t worry about the size, love. You’ll be doing the fucking tonight.” He winks. 

“Yes, I’ve done it before,” John grits out, patting his trousers. “Condom? Lube?” 

“In my jacket pocket,” Sebastian breathes, and John swears under his breath, beginning to move. Sebastian catches his arm, springing off the bed. “Allow me.” 

He trots out of the bedroom and grabs a condom and a lube packet. HIs hand closes over a case the size of a contact lens container, which holds two tiny cameras, each the size of a pinhead. He glances to the living room, at the barely-touched knick-knacks on the mantel, at the row of military histories gathering dust on the top bookshelf. It’s tempting, having another facet of John’s life open for the taking. 

Sebastian shoves the case back in his jacket pocket. No. Sebastian’s moral boundaries are few, but he can’t bring himself to invade John’s life any further. He’s already feeling guilty about how he watched John’s work route religiously, as if John was his how-to guide for grief. 

Sebastian can’t dally any longer. He returns to the bedroom, where John is lazily stroking himself. 

“Trying to have fun without me, Captain? Not very considerate.” He crawls back onto the bed to kiss John deeply, his hand covering John’s on his cock. 

John allows it for a few breathless strokes before pushing Sebastian off. “Hands and knees,” he barks, pulling back so that Sebastian can move to all fours.

“Exactly  _ how  _ many times have you fucked a man?” Sebastian asks over his shoulder, but then his head bows toward the mattress as John pushes a lubed digit into, beginning to loosen him up. 

John doesn’t answer, and Sebastian can’t be arsed to care, because soon there are two fingers in him, pressing right-  _ there-  _ of course John would find the prostate immediately, the fucking doctor that he is. Sebastian’s toes curl and he lets loose a small groan. 

He can hear John’s breathing speeding up behind him, feel his thighs press closer against Sebastian’s. “Good?” John asks. 

“Mn. You can go rougher- I’m not going to break-” Sebastian pants, and John adds a third finger, then a fourth, fucking him roughly until Sebastian has to clutch the base of his cock, his fist pounding once against the mattress. “Nng- fucking do it-”

John’s fingers withdraw and Sebastian hears the quick tear of a condom wrapper, then the sizable head of John’s prick is rubbing against his hole, and it really has been too long-

Sebastian stops thinking when John pushes in, and it’s just sensation- pain and pleasure, then finally, after a begging grunt, blessed movement, nothing but hot friction and shared, panting breath. 

“Give it to me-” Sebastian grunts, shoving back against him. Then John’s fingers tighten in his hair and Sebastian’s toes curl, a sharp breath leaving him. 

“Have you always been such a slut, Colonel? Slept your way to the top?” John laughs breathlessly, having the self-control to stop his thrusts for a moment, his hips making languorous circles until Sebastian’s nearly ready to scream. 

“I don’t know, have you always been a fucking tease?” Sebastian sneers with as much acid in his voice as he can muster. It’s a bit hard, considering he can barely string a cohesive thought together. 

That earns him a sharp laugh from John, who pulls out and grabs Sebastian’s hips, flipping him onto his back. He tsks, shoving Sebastian’s legs up against his chest, and Sebastian is honestly shocked at the change in positions. 

“No, that wasn’t teasing,” John says, his firm hands sliding to Sebastian’s wrists and pinning them to the mattress. “Hard to tease someone when I’m balls-deep in them. Why? Did you  _ want  _ to be teased?” 

The head of his cock rubs against Sebastian’s entrance again, and all Sebastian wants is that fulfilling stretch, that heated fullness. “Keep it up and find out what happens,” Sebastian growls through his teeth.

“That a threat, Moran?” John’s grin is so smug that Sebastian wrenches a hand free and slaps him across the cheek, hard enough to take John off-guard and make him swear. 

It gives Sebastian enough time to lock his legs around John’s hips and force him onto his back, climbing on top to straddle him. He wastes no time in angling John’s cock and pushing down onto him.

John is still clutching his red cheek when Sebastian straddles him, and Sebastian gets the pleasure of seeing John’s shocked expression when Sebastian begins riding him mercilessly. The doctor is quick to catch up to the rhythm, though, his hips working and grinding up as Sebastian fucks himself down on John frantically. 

“H-harder!” Sebastian finally manages out, though he’s in the position to do the most work at this point. “Fucking make me FEEL it.”

Sebastian throws every ounce of energy into it, his head tipping back as he focuses on the feeling. He’s tensed, wired, every cell coiled tightly for release. John’s cock is hitting at just the right angle, and when he can bear it no more, his hand flies to his cock, giving it a few short pumps. That’s all it takes before everything unravels, pushing Sebastian off the brink. He frantically bucks down onto John, coming, and he doesn’t stop moving, not even as his head begins clouding over and all he wants to do is collapse. His blurred vision catches sight of John, who is so desperate and close-

The friction is becoming painful when at last John’s grip on his thighs becomes bruising and he loses himself, releasing something close to a sob, then a stream of slurred swears. 

Sebastian finally stills when John sags into the mattress. He slowly pulls up, collapsing next to John. He closes his eyes, relishing the afterglow for as long as it will last, listening to their laboured breathing slow.

At last, a warm, steady hand slides up his sweaty back, tracing along his tattoo, then down to the knifed initials in his hip, a constant reminder of Jim. “Sebastian-”

Sebastian turns to look at John. It’s the first time the doctor’s actually said his name, and John is really  _ looking  _ at him again. 

Sebastian rolls over to face John. They’re close, facing each other, not quite touching, both sweaty and spent. 

John continues to study Sebastian’s face for a moment, then looks at the ceiling, swallowing. “I should have told him. I should have just fucking told him, while he was still alive-”  

And there is nothing Sebastian can say to that. 

“Does it fucking  _ hurt  _ this way for you, too?” John asked, still looking at the ceiling. “Does it rip you up inside? Even though you got to have him?”

Sebastian’s throat tightens. “Yes,” he finally says, in a voice that’s barely audible. “Every single day. A fucking hole in my chest.” He pauses, clears his throat. “I had him as much as one can have someone like him. There were so many pieces of him that were always out of my reach.” 

Sebastian imagines Jim, grinning, holding the gun to his head and pulling the trigger, without any hesitation or regret. Without sparing a thought for the sniper he was leaving behind. 

It’s only when Sebastian feels a rough thumb tracing down his cheek that he realises tears are rolling down his face, threatening to slide into his ears. He looks over at John and they meet each other’s eyes at last. John’s eyes are wet, too, and Sebastian feels utterly grateful for that, because he’s fucking tired of doing this alone. 

Sebastian glances to John’s hand, and John understands enough to withdraw his touch. They lie like that for a while, breathing, bodies close but not touching. It’s oddly anchoring. Intimate, even. 

“Don’t suppose you believe in an afterlife, do you?” John finally asks, his voice quiet and rough.  

Sebastian’s eyes slip closed. “I think it’s safe to say where Jim would be if there was,” he said dryly, then adds, “But no. It doesn’t feel real, still. I keep thinking he’ll...walk through that door…” His voice drifted off, the ache in his chest becoming unbearable. “But we don’t get closure. People die, lives end, and that’s it.” No glittering, tapering forevers.

“Mm. I suppose I agree with you,” John says.  

Sebastian’s bones melt into the bed. Grieving, as it turns out, is fucking exhausting, even nearly half a year in. 

“Jim was forever flirting with death,” Sebastian murmurs. “So I guess it was only a matter of time before he went all the way…” 

“I never would have thought- Sherlock- would ever-” John shifts on the bed, unable to go on.  

“He thought he was invincible,” Sebastian says. “He was too cocky. And he should have treated you better. They both should have treated us better.” 

It sounds almost petulant, but God, it feels good to say the truth out loud. Sebastian breathes deeply. His lungs feel empty. “I really need a fucking cigarette.”  

John looks up, those weary eyes locking with Sebastian’s. “Can I join you?” 

It’s 2:11 am and it’s raining outside, a steady rain that paints the late-night London streets with lamplight reflections. John and Sebastian stand under an awning at the corner, idly watching the occasional car slosh past.  

“Haven’t had one of these in quite a while,” John says, wrinkling his nose at the cigarette in his hand.  

Sebastian is almost done with his own, which doesn’t escape John’s notice. “Coming up for air anytime soon?” he remarks as Sebastian took a particularly long drag.\ 

Sebastian feels at home again, smoke in his lungs and the comforting weight of his gun at his hip.  He grins, letting smoke plume from his nostrils. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to stink up your flat again.”

John nods, not arguing, nor taking offense. They both know this is where they part ways. 

“Cheers for tonight,” John says after a long, contemplative silence. “Think I needed that.”

“I’d say you did, at that,” Sebastian smirks, which earns him a hard look. Sebastian’s face falls and he returns his attention to the last few drags of his cigarette. Right. This man isn’t his lover, nor his friend. Nobody could replace Jim’s pale, commanding body, those wild, mad eyes and feral grin. Nothing could fill that ache, because sometimes it hits him full in the face like a brick and hurts so damn much he can’t breathe. It’s a tiny consolation, knowing John feels the same way. 

“Those bloody bastards,” John murmurs, staring at his cigarette, letting it hover in front of his lips. 

“Bastards is right. You going to finish that?” Sebastian asks, eyeing the cigarette. 

John passes it over, his eyes focused on the wet pavement ahead of them. “What do we do now?” 

Sebastian closes his eyes, frowning as he inhales John’s cigarette. “We carry the fuck on,” he releases in the same breath as a stream of smoke. 

“And what do they do now?” John asks quietly, almost in a daze. 

Sebastian looks at him curiously. John has so many questions, and Sebastian is expected, for whatever reason, to have answers. He doesn’t know jack shit- but he answers anyway. “They sit back and watch. Scheme from their stupid thrones. Clouds or flames, whatever you like.”

 John bites out a laugh, idly rolling a cigarette butt under the toe of his shoe. “Thought you didn’t believe in the afterlife.”

 “I don’t, really. But it would be so typical of them to find a way. Figure out a way to watch the world spin from their graves.”

 John smiles tightly. “Everyone always tells me that he’s in a ‘better place.’ As if Sherlock would ever put up with the monotony of heaven. Clouds and harps and lazing about. He’d be bored to tears and tearing it apart within a day.”

 Sebastian breathes in deeply. He loves this smell - rain on pavement mixed with petrol. The smell of London. Why did Jim have to leave it so soon? They had barely finished with the city, with the world. 

 Sebastian pushes his hair back from his face and gives John a final look. “Take care of yourself, doctor,” he says, pulling out his phone to call a cab. “And stay the hell out of my way. It’d be a shame to kill you.” 

 John just gives a small nod, and for one last moment their eyes meet. It had been nice, for a few short hours, not to be alone, but their glance says the unspoken, plain truth of it. 

  _It still hurts._

_ Yes. It does.  _

 It doesn’t solve a thing, this mutual understanding, but it’s a resolution, of sorts. Sebastian’s hand slides into his pocket, rolling the miniscule camera case  in his fingers. He doesn’t know if it helped or not, seeing another man grieve, watching his mirror image- but it can’t continue. Their paths might run parallel, but they were paths that had to be journeyed alone.

 Soon it’s 2:21 in the morning, and two men of no apparent consequence are standing on a rainy London street corner. They stand apart, the strangers - one looking up at the rainy sky, the other staring down at the pavement - two mortals missing their gods. 

 


End file.
